But I do carry a pretty
fair left-handed punch that you'll get if you don't move on."
"You are a blamed impudent little gutter pup," said the caliph.
Then James delivered his self-praised punch; old Tom seized him by the
collar and kicked him thrice; the hat cleaner rallied and clinched; two
bookstands were overturned, and the books sent flying. A copy came up,
took an arm of each, and marched them to the nearest station house.
"Fighting and disorderly conduct," said the cop to the sergeant.
"Three hundred dollars bail," said the sergeant at once, asseveratingly
and inquiringly.
"Sixty-three cents," said James Turner with a harsh laugh.
The caliph searched his pockets and collected small bills and change
amounting to four dollars.
"I am worth," he said, "forty million dollars, but--"
"Lock 'em up," ordered the sergeant.
In his cell, James Turner laid himself on his cot, ruminating. "Maybe
he's got the money, and maybe he ain't. But if he has or he ain't, what
does he want to go 'round butting into other folks's business for? When
a man knows what he wants, and can get it, it's the same as $40,000,000
to him."
Then an idea came to him that brought a pleased look to his face.
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